Cage of Ink
by Shadow of Light
Summary: In his youth, Zevran runs away from the Crows to join the Dalish. For one of the weekly Zev Prompts at BSN, and inspired by Payroo's art.


~V~

"So these tattoos..." Zevran leaned back on the grass beneath the tree, bracing himself with his elbows as he nodded towards a trio of Dalish hunters not far away. "I notice many bear them, but not the children. Nor you, my sw- ah, Danayla"

The young woman sitting cross-legged beside him smiled. She was a pretty creature, vivid green eyes set in a sun-tanned face that was framed by black hair cut short and wild. Her body was slender but athletic-he'd known this by watching her run and climb and fight in the forests.

"The vallaslin are the symbols of our gods," she explained. Zevran didn't much care for religious instruction, but was prepared to put up with a bit for the sake of having a beautiful woman's undivided attention. He smiled as though interested and nodded for her to continue. "We bear them to show the humans we will never forsake our ways or surrender ever again. It is also a rite of adulthood amongst us. Once an elf is of age she may prove herself by performing a task to show her worth, and that she is fit to bear the responsibilities of being an adult."

Danayla glanced to the hunters, giving Zevran a chance to admire the line of her neck and shoulder. "One who hunts, for instance, might be called to bring down prey on her own, to show she could provide for her family and protect them. That hunter there"-she pointed, indicating a tall elven man with a mane of brunette hair and a longbow taller than he was-"his name is Pavalath. He went on his hunt yesterday and slew a young dragon!"

Zevran stifled his incredulous laughter at the amazed and slightly awestruck way she told him this. "Truly? Did anyone but he see this marvellous feat?"

"No, but he brought back all he could carry from the kill: meat, teeth, claws, horns, scales, wing membrane and scales." He eyes shone with admiration as she gazed at the object of her attention. "Everyone was amazed at his tale!"

"I imagine so," Zevran demurred, keeping his smirk to himself and declining to ask if anyone had considered the possibility of someone else-or some_thing_ else-making the kill, thus leaving Pavalath to salvage his 'evidence'. "A fine hunter, you say?"

"Oh, yes. One of our finest. He will get his vallaslin tonight. There will be a feast, with roasted meat from his kill, and a grand cloak set about his shoulders made from some of the trophies of his hunt!"

"And what of you?" he asked, attempting to draw her enthusiastic gushing away from the young hunter. "What feat must you perform to leave childhood behind?"

He asked it carefully. He'd learned quite early that the Dalish did not encourage certain..._activities_ amongst their children. He had caused something of a problem for them at first, since growing up in a whorehouse made one consider things like sex as natural and everyday as breathing. Why wait until wearing tattoos? What was wrong with enjoying the body of another? Where the harm in kisses and caresses, moans and soft sighs?

It was slightly frustrating that _he_ was considered a child to the Dalish. He was a Crow, was he not? His ink was proof he could fight, kill and survive, but no, he had to know their ways, learn their Path of Three Trees (or whatever they called it), and earn his place to stand with the warriors and be seen as a man.__

Earn his place! And be forced to go under the needle a second time! It didn't seem fair. His irritation at this perceived injustice only made him more stubborn about having to learn their ways, his self-assurance in his abilities made him disdain having to prove himself _yet again_, and being viewed as a child and misguided shem-tainted outsider made it _difficult _to charm anyone in this proud clan into warming his bedroll—frustrating for very obvious reasons indeed.

In the city, his status and tattoos would have had women and men alike clamouring for his favour, all so they could boast to their friends about having been with an infamous Antivan Crow. Amongst the _Dalish_, his markings were a curiosity and little more…certainly not a display of deadliness or virility.

"I am to wear the marks of Elgar'nan," Danayla said, in a determined way that made Zevran cock his head to her words. "I will kill one of the shemlen for what its people did to ours."

"When?" was all Zevran asked. The morals behind a mission did not matter to assassins.

"When Elgar'nan sees fit."

Zevran hesitated. "That is...the God of Vengeance, yes?"

Danayla giggled. "A da'len of five cycles could have told you that! But you are learning. This is good."

Zevran returned her smile, though wryly. "I do not see why I must learn these things to have a place. I could challenge and best any warrior here-"

"_Could_ you, flat-ears?" a woman's voice interrupted from above. Zevran and Danayla looked up to find one of the Dalish warriors perched high in the tree's boughs, bow in hand, sneer on lips. "Very bold to make such a claim. Stalking stupid humans in your dead city is nothing akin to hunting wild prey in the forest!"

"One thing bleeds much like another," Zevran countered lazily, grinning upwards. "Why should the killing be any more difficult out here than in there, hmm?"

The woman snorted. "Know how to take down a deer on the run, do you? Can you snare a rabbit? Catch a fish?"

"Why would I wish to?"

"To eat. To live."

Zevran laughed. "In Antiva City I was paid to kill, then I could spend my earnings on any food I wished without needing to clean it, cut it up or cook it. I could even pay for lodgings that didn't leak onto my face every morning," he added as an afterthought.

"If you knew how, or had the humility to ask for instruction, you could fix the leak yourself."

Zevran ignored that. "I could best anyone here in a fight, I do not lie. The Crows taught me well."

"So well that you sound like one of them, flat-ears," a new voice declared. The three hunters had approached, un-tattooed Pavalath amongst them, all glaring at Zevran. "Like an arrogant short-lived savage."

Heads turned around the encampment; Danayla edged away from Zevran, looking ashamed to be seen in his company all of a sudden.

The response on the tip of Zevran's tongue, a definition of 'savage' he'd heard in the guild to describe the Dalish, suddenly seemed a lot less amusing in his head as he considered the untamed hair, fiercely inked faces and jewellery carved from horn, tooth and talon. Their leathers, while not embellished and immaculate like his fine Antivan armour, were decorated nevertheless by the rake of claws and slash of branches.

Suddenly he found himself considering the definition of 'short-lived' instead.

Just as he was about to commit himself to a grudging apology, Keeper Tathera intervened. "Zevran is newly come among us, and your brother," he reminded the hunters sternly. "He is still learning. And you"-he raked the tattooed hunters and Pavalath with his violet-eyed gaze-"should be old enough to know better."

"Abelas," the hunters said one by one, stiffly, and departed. Danayla scurried away too, crimson with embarrassment by association and pointedly avoiding Zevran's eyes.

Zevran sighed and rolled lightly to his feet so he could face the Keeper without feeling like he was being looked down upon.

"I assume I am to be lectured again?" he guessed, taking no pains to hide his displeasure at the prospect.

There was nothing subtle about Tathera's vallaslin—one half of the dark-haired Keeper's face was almost completely black, threaded by patterns of his natural skin-tone that resembled branches or briars. The other side was its reflection, unmarked save for black blanches. From behind this ink, deep-set violet eyes regarded him narrowly.

"Not today," the Keeper said. "There are to be celebrations, and I would rather not have anyone upset on what should be a joyous day."

"Pavalath's rite of passage, yes?" Zevran shook his head. "I need no such ceremony. I am an elf, my mother was of the clans, and I can fight! There is no reason why—"

"Natural ability does not mean you are an adult, my son."

"Yet it is by the proof of ability that you allow your boys to be counted as men," Zevran riposted. "Is this not so?"

"It is so," Tathera agreed, smiling a little. "However…no boy is _granted_ their test of ability without being deemed fit for all that succeeding will require of them."

Zevran made a frustrated sound and stalked away a couple of paces, then back, his face rigidly composed. "Meaning your Creators and your ways, fixing tents and tending halla and catching fish! What need for me to know these things?"

Tathera tipped his head to one side. "As an adult, one day you will bond with a woman to continue her bloodline and yours. What will you teach your children if the sum of your knowledge is how to stab a man when his back is turned?"

"_Children_?" was all Zevran could manage, utterly flabbergasted.

"Smaller versions of you and your future betrothed," Tathera offered gravely.

"I know what—" Zevran broke off as the older elf laughed, and the sound of it was so easy, completely without mockery, that his annoyance evaporated and he managed a chuckle.

"Come, da'len," Tathera said, still smiling. "I do not know what trials you went through to get your tattoos, nor what celebrations were thrown in your honour when you received them. I suppose it was a grand affair, with all your city has to offer and the way you have spoken of fine foods and drinks. Our ways must appear crude in comparison."

Zevran was able to produce a grin that didn't look too forced, but said nothing. All he had truly received that day was the right to move out of the tightly-packed apartment where recruits were lodged and into a room of his own provided by his Crow cell. He had earned the right to bear weapons, move about the city more freely and bid for contracts. There had been no feast, no marvellous cloak, no cheers or blushing admiration for his success…

"But coming of age, amongst the Dalish, is more than these things," the Keeper continued. "It is also a rite of acceptance, a chance for us to celebrate _with _you so that our joy is shared when you become a part of The People. Come," he said again, beckoning, and Zevran allowed himself to be led away. "Come and see that why this is a moment you should look forward to…"

~V~

The hours passed.

While Pavalath received his vallaslin, sitting still and quiet under the artisan's needle as a proud Dalish should, meat was cooked. Cured, supple dragonwing was fashioned and decorated with curved claws. Fires were lit and laughing elves sang merry songs.

Zevran passed through the celebration like an assassin would walk through shadows…practically invisible. Except this time he was not trying to be. The gaiety bubbled around him yet somehow failed to include him, foreign as it was.

When Pavalath finally emerged to signal the official beginnings of the festivities in his honour, it was to a great cheer and the applause of his clan. His new tattoos were still fresh and sore, puffed and red around the ink, but their bearer grinned with pride as his peers welcomed him to their ranks and the as-yet unmarked Dalish flocked about to admire the flowing patterns etched upon his skin.

Praise and joy flowed like some exotic wine everyone but Zevran could taste.

The city elf found himself tracing the three sinuous curves upon his own cheek, trying to imagine what it would be like were he in Pavaleth's place…and found he could not. The evening-dappled glade merely vanished into the memory of a dark room, dimly lit, the efficient and impersonal hands of some faceless artist stabbing his unique brand into one cheek before swiping blood away with a single grunt to signify the completion of his task, along with a curt instruction to send in the next recruit for similar treatment.

But…perhaps with time he could have this…this thing he saw here before him…?

Pavalath chose that precise moment to notice him, and of course he saw the fingertips Zevran still had absently pressed to his cheek. The hunter's expression turned to one of unmistakable condescension before he returned his attention to his adoring friends, and Zevran felt that oh-so-fragile moment of undecided hope shatter, a foolish dream.

_So it is settled. This is not where I belong, this place where I am not wanted. In the city, the only men who would dare sneer at me so would find themselves breathing through their necks…_

"Zevran?"

He made a motion as though scratching the side of his face and smiled at the young woman who was looking concernedly at him. "Ah, lovely Danayla. Some party, yes?"

"Are you all right?"

He chuckled. "Is there a reason why I should not be? Although it is quite noisy, I confess. I think I may take a quick walk down by the river to clear my head. Would you…care to join me?" Here he smiled, using the full force of his amber eyes, and was pleased to see her flush. If he was going to leave the clan there was no reason not to have a little fun before doing so, and showing his pretty friend what she was missing out on might give her something to think about whenever speaking of what virtues defined a man…

But she looked uncomfortable all of a sudden, darting an envious glance towards Pavaleth and his admirers. "It really wouldn't be proper to leave so soon," she said. "The feast hasn't even started! Maybe later, all right?"

"As you wish," he said with another chuckle, and she hurried off to join the others while he strolled off into the trees alone, disappointed and more keen to depart than ever.

~V~

It was some time before anyone really noticed he hadn't returned.

~V~

**Juxtaposition**

The swirls of ink, caress of brush  
>A splash of blood and pain so hot<br>Now keep your silence, shh, dear, _hush…_  
>Just hold your tongue and tremble not.<p>

If Crow you wish to be, not corpse,  
>If Dalish elf you are, not child,<br>For death and wealth and luscious whores,  
>To know no lord, be free and wild<p>

Trace curving lines in colours dark  
>Stabbed sharp in skin to show your choice<br>Creator's sign? Assassin's mark?  
>But either way, keep mute your voice.<p>

No tear or cry to show your pain  
>Nor tremor fine betray your strife<br>These sigils bold and raw proclaim:  
><em>"I will endure the trials of life."<em>

_That's what they mean,_  
><em>These marks of mine,<em>  
><em>Not name of god,<em>  
><em>Not sacred sign.<em>

_Come city street,_  
><em>Or forest glade,<em>  
><em>Strong hunter's bow,<em>  
><em>Or poisoned blade.<em>

_"I will survive."_  
><em>My life, I think.<em>  
><em>What more to hope<em>  
><em>In cage of ink?<em>


End file.
